Runner (15 page)

I turned down the blue ramp leading to Pier B. At the security gate my hands were shaking so much I fumbled with the key a couple of times. Finally I managed to open the gate. I walked down the pier and was just about to step onto the
Tiny Dancer
when, through one of the cabin windows, I saw the back of someone's head—someone I didn't recognize.

He couldn't be a murderer. He just couldn't be. No murderer would walk down the pier on a busy afternoon and sit in our cabin, his head visible through the window.

But he was one of the smugglers. Who else could he be? I'd been right—Burdett's suicide had speeded up the timing. The man was on the boat to get the packages—that was it, that had to be it. All I had to do was go onboard and hand them over. He'd take them, and I'd be done with everything forever.

I stepped quietly onto the boat, my mouth dry with fear. The deck looked strange, and for an instant I couldn't figure why. Then it hit me. Everything was clean. The benches, the little table, the deck—all of them were shining and clean. There were no ashtrays filled with cigarettes, no beer bottles or newspapers stuffed into the trash can.

From down below I heard a cough. I maneuvered past the
wheel to the steps leading down to the cabin. I grabbed hold of the companionway railing and took one step down. "Hello," I said, "I'm coming down."

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. The man had a sponge in his hand and was wiping down the table. He was wearing a white shirt and slacks, was clean-shaven, and had short, gray-black hair.

"How do I look?" my dad said as he ran his hand over his smooth chin.

It took a while before I could answer. "You look good, Dad. But what's going on?"

"I got a job, Chance. A real job. Medical benefits, dental benefits, sick days, vacation time." He looked at his watch. "In fact, I start in an hour. That girlfriend of yours. Melissa. Her father and me were good friends in high school. But you know that, don't you?"

"You called Melissa's father?" I said.

"No, he called the marina office and they came and got me. It's nothing special. I'm a janitor at his office building downtown, that's all. Nights and Saturdays. I'll mop the floors and empty the trash. Not exactly what I had in mind for myself when I was your age, but it'll keep me going once you're gone and on your own." He paused. "And that brings me to something else. Isn't it about time you told me just what it is you're going to do once you graduate?"

I looked at him with his clean clothes, his clean hair, his clean face and hands, his new job. "I'm going to enlist," I said.

"In what?" he said.

"The army, just like you did. I got a brochure at school a couple of months ago. It makes sense for me."

He nodded. "I guess it does. I just wish all this stuff wasn't going on in the Middle East."

"So do I," I said.

"They'll give you money for college when you get out. Use it for college. You hear me? Don't get some pretty girl pregnant and end up married before you're ready."

"Is that what happened with you and Mom?"

"That's what happened. I don't mean that I wish you weren't born, Chance. I only mean—" He paused, then started again. "I only mean that I don't want you to end up like me."

I wish I'd said something then, something about how he was OK by me, but I didn't.

He looked at his watch again. "I got to go. I can't be late my first day." He smiled. "Maybe on day two, but not the first day."

He turned to leave. "Can I ask you something?" I said.

"What?"

"Why'd you get kicked out of the service?"

He laughed. "Drinking, fighting, missing curfews. Nothing big, but string together a whole bunch of stupid little things and you can do yourself in."

"But you didn't ever run away in battle, or anything like that?"

The smile disappeared. "Is that what you thought? No, Chance, I never ran away. I was a good soldier under fire. It was the other times I had trouble with."

After he left, I realized I hadn't told him about Burdett and the packages and the guys in the sport coats on the boardwalk by the duck pond. But that was OK. In fact, I couldn't remember why I'd ever wanted to tell him. After all, what could he do for me? What could anyone do for me? I'd gotten into this by myself; I'd have to get out of it the same way.

The pickup would happen on Saturday, May 1, which was just two weeks away. Normally two weeks is nothing, here and gone. But nothing was normal anymore.

I told myself over and over that I was being stupid. The police had said Burdett killed himself. It was idiotic to think that he'd been murdered, idiotic to think that somebody might murder me. But it didn't matter what I told myself—inside I was scared. Every stranger on the sidewalk, every car on the street, became a threat. The slightest noise in the night and I'd instantly be wide awake, wondering,
Is it them? Are they coming for me?

I kept to a strict routine. I left for school at the same time every morning, returned to the sailboat at the same time every afternoon. I ran out to the locks, across the Magnolia footbridge, and then back to the drop-off spot by the maple tree. I poked around in the rocks, and then ran back to the
Tiny
Dancer.
If someone was watching me, I wanted them to see that I was doing everything exactly the way I had always done it, the way I'd been told to do it. I wanted them to know I was reliable, that they could trust me to turn over the packages to them.

Day after day after day I stuck to the same schedule, but as May i grew closer, my head started to ache and my blood was pumping so fast I could hear it drumming in my ears. I just wanted Saturday to come; I just wanted those packages off the boat.

On the Friday morning before May i, I couldn't stop looking at the clock during my classes. I didn't know seconds and minutes could take so long to pass. Fourth period ended at eleven-forty-five, but already I felt as if I'd been at school for a week. I ate, or tried to eat, my lunch in the commons. But when the bell sounded for fifth period, I just couldn't face it. Instead of going to class, I went out the gym door and headed back to the boat.

It was strange walking down to the marina at that time of day. Fewer cars were on the streets, and everything seemed quieter. When I crossed Thirty-second Avenue, it was as if I was the last person in the world. The only sound was the occasional bark of a dog. It was actually a relief to hear a car coming up the street behind me.

Or it was a relief for a few seconds. But then that feeling turned to fear. The car was going too slow—it should have passed me by now. Instead it was inching along behind me. I wanted to turn and look, but I was afraid to. I told myself to count to ten, and then, if the car hadn't passed me, then
I'd turn and look. I started counting....
One ... two ... three ... four...

I turned at
eight.
Forty yards behind me was a black Mercedes. As soon as I turned, the driver accelerated and the car flew by me, tires squealing as it rounded the corner and turned onto Seaview Avenue. It was the same car I'd seen that time I'd come out of the utility room; I was sure of it.

My mind started clicking like a railroad car moving down the line. I'd been right. They had been watching me, all the time, and I'd just done the stupidest thing I could possibly have done—I'd changed my routine. For seven months I'd come home from school at the same time. And now, the day before the pickup, now I was early. The one thing I didn't want them to think was the only thing they would think—that I was changing things on them, that they couldn't trust me. I'd blown it. Right at the end, when I'd needed to play it cool, I'd blown it.

That's when I thought of my dad. He wouldn't be at work, not now, not in the middle of the afternoon. He'd be sitting on the boat, not knowing anything about anything.

I was almost running by the time I reached the parking lot in front of Pier B, and I did run when I reached the ramp. I was fumbling for my gate key when a guy who owned a new Catalina a couple of slips down from ours pushed the door open from the inside. I stepped by him onto the pier. It was that simple—the security gate wouldn't stop anybody.

I hurried down the pier, my eyes on the
Tiny Dancer.
It looked so small, so very small, and so peaceful in the still water. A boat like any other boat, and all of what I feared seemed
like a dream. But those red packages were real; the black Mercedes was real; the death of Burdett was real.

The boat wasn't a terrible mess topside, but someone had been there, looking. The garbage can was tipped over. The bench seats were in the upright position; the sweaters and blankets stored beneath them were tossed about. I swallowed hard, then made my way to the steps leading into the cabin.

That's where the real mess was. The icebox, the shelves, the drawers—everything had been tossed around like so much trash. Cans of food rolled around in a puddle of milk mixed with orange juice. The mattress and pillows in the sleeping berths had been slit open.

I climbed into my own berth, pushed the ruined bedding aside, and crawled forward. I hoped that they'd found the secret storage nook, found it and taken the packages, and that it was all over. But even before I slid the panel open, I knew they hadn't. And I was right—they were still there: a dozen red packages lined up side by side. I'd hidden them too well. I closed my eyes and slumped down onto the mattress. That's when I heard footsteps overhead and—a moment later—my father's voice. "You want to tell me what's going on?"

I told him everything, beginning with Burdett following me into the utility room back in October and ending with the black Mercedes racing past me that afternoon. It took about ten minutes. During that time, he never interrupted and he never acted surprised. It was as if I were telling him things he already knew. And I guess in a way I was. All along he'd suspected I was doing something illegal.

"And you think the guys in the Mercedes tore up the boat looking for those packages?"

"I don't know who else it could have been."

After that, neither of us said anything for a while. Then he opened up his pocketknife and motioned toward my berth. "Grab one of those packages, Chance. We might as well find out what they're smuggling."

"I told you," I said. "There are gems hidden in them. Emeralds and stuff like that."

"So let's take a look. I've never held a real emerald in my hand."

I picked up one of the packages and handed it to him. He carefully slit it open. Underneath the red packing paper was a layer of wax paper. He peeled it away. Underneath that was a doughy substance. "And you think gems are hidden inside this stuff?"

"That's what they told me."

He pulled it apart, poked his fingers through it, but found nothing. He held it to his nose and smelled it. Finally he put it down and stared at it.

He was just about to say something when we heard a rattling at the security gate. We both looked at each other. He motioned for me to stay still, and then he climbed up and looked. When he came back down, he shook his head. "Just Kovich leaving."

We both looked back to the doughy stuff on the table. "It's some kind of plastic explosive, isn't it?" I said.

His eyebrows went up. "How do you know about plastic explosives?"

"Is that what it is?"

He nodded. "In the army I once handled some stuff called Semtex. It was a lot like this. A lot like this."

We both stared at it, trying to take in what it all meant. It didn't seem possible. Not me. Not my dad. Not Shilshole marina. Not the
Tiny Dancer.
Something like this couldn't happen here, to us. And yet, there it was. I looked toward the other packages. "How much damage could all this do?" I asked.

"None, without a detonator. And I don't see one here. But hook up a couple of wires and a battery—" He stopped and shook his head.

"We've got to call the police."

"Be quiet, Chance," he said. "I need to think."

"What's there to think about? We've got to get out of here right now and call the police. They're sure to come back. If they killed Burdett, they'd kill us too."

His eyes fired with anger. "I said I need to think. OK?"

I sat still, my heart drumming in my chest, while his eyes seemed focused on something very far away. Finally he spoke. "Listen to me, Chance, and listen carefully. You know Kovich's inflatable boat?"

"What does that have to do with anything? Dad, we have to get out of here."

"Just answer me. Do you know the boat?"

Kovich owned the sailboat moored in the slip next to us. A little yellow inflatable was always tied to the stern. "Of course I know it."

"All right. Here's what you're going to do. You're going to slip onto his boat and then onto that inflatable. Once you're on it, you'll row to the beach, ditch the inflatable, and then go straight to Trevor Watts. I want you to tell him everything you've told me."

"Melissa's father? Why him? Why not the police?"

"Because the police won't believe you, not without checking it out for themselves. If the cops come down here now, the men behind this will know it's over and just slip away. That's why."

"I don't care if they get away. I just want to get off this boat
and go to a phone booth so we can call the police. I'll tell them everything. I don't even care if I end up in jail. It's what I deserve, anyway."

My dad shook his head. "You're not thinking, Chance. These are terrorists we're dealing with. Terrorists. If they get away now, they won't stop. In six months or a year they'll have a new target, a new plan to blow something up and kill somebody or thousands of somebodies. I'm not going to let that happen. You think of me as a bum. I know you do, and I don't blame you, because that's all you've ever seen. But I told you I was a good soldier, and I was. I was very good. I'm going to get these guys, Chance. But I need your help. I need you to get to Trevor Watts. So will you do it? For me?"